Big C.

When I first moved to this apartment, my beautiful, 7 foot Bechstein grand did not fit up the stairs.

Moving here in the first place was sort of a financial gamble.  My rent was going up by three times what I had been paying, and it was a leap of faith that I would be able to sustain my new digs.  At the time, it seemed a bit crazy to drop three grand on hoisting my baby through the window, with knowledge that if I had to move again soon, it would be another three k on the way out.  So I swapped it with a nearby student for his quaint little upright until further notice.

Today, I could not keep focus on what I was trying to practice.  Thoughts kept wandering to, "What is that freakin' twang on the F#?" and "Bloody hell, the slow repetition of this gosh darn piano is driving me CRAZY! GO FASTER!"  "WHERE are the sympathetic vibrations???"  "The gravity IS NOT WORKING."  I've tempered my internal dialogue here so that my parents can continue to believe that New York hasn't changed me, or my parlance.  In actuality, Mom, Dad, I've heard eight-year-olds drop the F bomb on several occasions, which continues to shock me, but it goes to show that one can't live for long in NYC without acquiring the mouth of a sailor.

ANYWAY, the point is, it has been two years since I moved into this cozy, little place.  And though I would lose most of my apartment to it, I think it might be time.  Time to bring back Carl.

Here we go, Day 95: